


Filthy Design

by objectlesson



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: BDSM, Comeplay, Dubious Consent, Horseback Riding, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M, Master/Servant, absurdly filthy sex, fluid exchange, unsanitary stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel's need always outweighs his dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy Design

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what happened. I'm in the middle of a much bigger piece but apparently I needed a break from all that demon sex to write more demon sex? Apparently I am also into demon sex? Who knew? Not me. Anyway. 
> 
> So the most important thing about this story is that it's entirely unsanitary and you shouldn't read it if you're not into fluid exchange. Like I do not recommend trying this at home you will probably get an infection. Also, I am so glad to finally have a fandom where it makes sense canonically to have a character ride horses! I have written numerous horse related AUs to get characters on horseback, so this was a novelty. 
> 
> This story is super filthy, possibly even filthier than the stupid Aesthetic Perfection song I stole the title from, which is so filthy I cannot listen to it in public, even with headphones. Never happened, don't own.
> 
> Note: ALL SEX WITH CHILDREN CIEL'S AGE IS RAPE, NON-CON, ABUSE, ETC. I do not ever ever ever ever condone this type of thing. Ciel is incapable of giving consent as an abused child, so every sex scene in any story I've ever written in this fandom is coerced and essentially non consensual. Read at your own risk knowing that just because this is a WORK OF FICTION about ANIME CHARACTERS, doesn't mean the dynamic therein is ok.

It is an unusually oppressive August, rich with the breed of heat that steals the air from Ciel’s lungs, makes his sleeves cling to his elbow creases and trickles of sweat creep down the divot of his spine. It feels _intolerable_ , this stifling, smothering humidity, and all he wants do to is stay inside the mansion with a book and a mint lemonade. Preferably with the windows open and the curtains drawn to block out sunlight while still letting a breeze in, should one ever come. 

But of course, Sebastian does not find the heat a fit enough reason to alter the schedule he has planned for the Earl of Phantomhive. He is inhuman and holds inhuman standards, meaning things like inclement weather and air too thick to breathe are meaningless. It is Wednesday, and Ciel _always_ has his riding lesson on Wednesday, provided there are no conflicting meetings or guests. So in spite of the horrific heat, he is seated atop his horse while the sun bakes down upon both of them, her black coat shining in a froth of sweat as he trots her around the perimeter of the jumping arena. His own hair is similarly matted down upon his brow, damp as he reaches to push it out of his eyes. 

He posts upon aching legs, increasingly disgruntled that Sebastian would make him do something so _physical_ when merely _walking_ from one room to the other is enough to work up a sweat. He pants, well aware of the spots of color on his cheeks, the unsightly slick of perspiration collecting in the hollow of his throat. Though Ciel enjoys hunting, training for hunts is an entirely different matter. He often suspects that his riding lessons are actually just poorly veiled indulgences of Sebastian’s, excuses to humiliate him, watch him ride in circles and point out every minute flaw in his form, make him repeat exercises over and over again until he is flushed and mussed and frustrated.

Sebastian is currently standing in the center of the arena, face so smooth that anyone who is not Ciel Phantomhive might miss the implicit smugness written into the corners of his mouth as he raises a forearm to shield his eyes from the insistent burn of the sun. He is holding a long, elegant dressage whip in his other hand, which he will occasionally snap into the coarse arena dirt to incite more movement from Ciel’s horse. Even in his many layers of black, there is no pinkness to his skin, no sweat at his hairline. He looks as he always does, and it’s infuriating. Ciel is painfully occupied by the differences between their bodies right now, his own so flawed, so maddeningly _human_ as Sebastian remains statuesque and perfect before him. 

Before he _collapses_ from exhaustion, Ciel pulls his mare into a clumsy walk, his weight pitching forward over her neck and his back rounding inexpertly. “Whoa,” he huffs to her until she stops, all the while scowling at Sebastian, who gazes back apathetically, appearing only vaguely expectant. “I’m exhausted and my knees ache and it’s _insufferably hot_. I suggest finish early today and have Finnian hose the horse off. I’m not the only one drenched in sweat,” Ciel declares, several feet from Sebastian and that dressage whip, stiff, black, tapered. 

“Hm,” Sebastian says, mouth forming a flat line. “I did not instruct you to halt. Regardless, you do know your back should remain straight and your weight centered, just as it does during all gait transitions. Pick up the trot, and then after ten strides, try again.” 

Fury, as familiar as hunger, flares up in Ciel’s heaving chest. Sebastian is _loathsome_ in his indifference, in his sickening ability to sustain such absurd temperatures, such perfectly shiny hair. He is just _standing_ there, as beautiful as ever. Ciel’s tired body feels too small to contain the oncoming tirade of annoyance, so it spills unchecked from his lips. “I _know_ how to halt properly, _Sebastian_ ,” he snaps, hands flexing indignantly in their leather gloves, which squeak over the reins. 

Before he can continue, Sebastian interjects. “Really? It’s difficult to ascertain, when the young master can hardly remain in the saddle as he stops,” he says dryly, pressing his palms together. “Now. Pick up the trot,” he repeats. 

Ciel rubs the sweat from the bridge of his nose with his sleeve, eyes narrowed at Sebastian as he drops his stirrups, making quite a show out of it. Then, kicking one leg over his horses’s hind quarters, he dismounts, dropping clumsily to the dirt. “No. This lesson is over, I cannot learn anything in this heat,” he announces. “Perhaps this is nothing to a creature from _hell_ , that fire and brimstone and whatever else you’re used to, but it is entirely unhealthy for anything _alive_. You will take me inside, and there will be no more outdoor activities for the remainder of the day. Understood?” He snaps. 

His whole body is aching as he staggers across the arena, like his muscles have been wrung out by the humidity, blanched by the sun. He dodges his horses head as she attempts to rub her face on his shoulder, itchy beneath the headstall of her bridle, mouth clinking nosily and messily over her bit in a froth of saliva. Ciel cringes, disliking it terribly when animals try to touch him with their filth. “Take this,” he orders, handing her off to Sebastian. 

“Very well,” Sebastian sighs, raising one eyebrow but appearing mostly indifferent. “I did not realize the young master _wilted_ in such conditions. My apologies,” he ends curtly. Sebastian pulls the horse’s head towards him, smoothing her mane, completely unvexed by the thick, alfalfa-green foam which coats her bit and stains his gloves. He thumbs over the corners of her mouth, soothing the inevitable post-ride soreness there, then inches dexterous fingertips beneath leather straps, scratching up over her nose and then into her forelock. 

She nickers appreciatively, and for some reason the whole spectacle only makes Ciel angrier. In spite of himself, in spite of his _consuming abhorrence of Sebastian in this moment_ , he wants those gloved fingers in his own tender mouth, in his own hair. What’s more is that he knows if Sebastian were to try and touch him right now, he would smack his hand away. It’s a confusing mess, as all things are with Sebastian. Disgusted with himself and his horse and his butler and above all, the _heat_ , Ciel peels sticky leather gloves from palms, and scratches his own head beneath his hunting cap. The act feels base, lonely and disgraceful, but there is nothing to be done about it. 

Sebastian hands Ciel’s horse off to Finnian, who is more than happy to allow her to rub her itchy face all over him. Then, side by side though not necessarily together, they return to the mansion, Sebastian a vision, Ciel on unsteady legs. He cannot believe he survived such an ordeal, his mouth tasting like the salt of his own sweat, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin, the smell of adolescence radiating shamefully from him in waves. As they walk he dreams of mint lemonade, decidedly ignoring the recurring image in his head of Sebastian pulling a metal bit out of his mouth, rubbing into the corners of his lips with careful gloved thumbs. It’s a confusing mess, as all things are with Sebastian. 

As they trump up the stairs he is dragging his feet, which feel impossibly heavy in their too-tight paddock boots. Sebastian throws the door open, but instead of holding it for Ciel to walk through, arm extended and head dropped humbly as usual, he does a terrible thing. 

Ciel is not even sure what’s happening to him. One moment is about to be saved from heat-sickness by the cool, drafty interior of his manor, the next he somehow _upside down_ , his foyer mysteriously inverted and his stomach pressed painfully into some part of his butler. Blood rushes to his face and he flails clumsily, realizing Sebastian has just picked him up and thrown him over his shoulder like a sack of laundry, like a dead pheasant, like a _naughty child_. He pounds at an elegant black back with his fists. “What on _earth_ are you _doing?_ ” He wheezes, finding it somewhat difficult to breathe let alone speak in this position. “Sebastian, put me down this _instant_.” 

Sebastian ignores him, closing the front door behind him and proceeding to carry Ciel up the stairs, holding him firmly in place with one wide, gloved palm upon his backside. “Moments ago you suggested to me that you could not endure the heat. I am only satisfying my master’s wishes, and preventing him from having to engage in any further labor,” Sebastian says, turning his head so that his lips move against Ciel’s hip, sweaty jodhpurs muffling his voice. 

Ciel blushes spectacularly in spite of his already ruddy cheeks, head dropping to conceal such things from Sebastian. He must have been transparent, at some point. He must have belied that he was thinking about Sebastian’s hands, that he was in part unable to focus on his lesson because he was entirely too focused on his butler. This always happens. Ciel assumes he is being discreet, that his perpetual irritation at Sebastian appears simple, uncomplicated, free of the eddies and currents which reside beneath its seemingly steady tide. 

However, the truth is that it is blackened with innumerable complexities, things like desire and dependance and obsession and need. And Sebastian _knows_ , he _always knows_ because he is cruel and inhuman and fashioned Ciel Phantomhive from clay, fired him in the kiln until he became the hardened mess he is today, run through with cracks and fissures. Sebastian knows he is this way because he _made him_ this way. So Ciel cannot hide from it. 

He goes limp over Sebastian’s shoulder. It is too hot to fight him, to pretend that this will end up any other way. He thinks Sebastian will carry him to the bath, strip him roughly and scrub the patina of sweat and horse-dirt from his skin, push fingers into all his bruises and then fuck him over the counter, holding his head back and his throat exposed with a hand in his hair, so that Ciel can watch and hate and love the whole thing in the mirror. But as they approach the bathroom door, Sebastian strides meaningfully past it, continuing down the corridor. 

“What? Where are we going?” Ciel barks, twisting his head around Sebastian’s side to try and see. Sebastian tightens the grip he has on him, palming over the crack of his ass, towards the insides of his thighs. Ciel’s mouth snaps shut, teeth grinding together in humiliation. 

“To your room,” Sebastian offers matter-of-factly. “It doubles as a comforting and familiar place for you to regain your bearings, since you were feeling so very faint, and also a punishment of sorts, seeing as you so abruptly ended your lesson, without cooling off your horse or completing the exercise at hand.” 

“ _Punishment_?”Ciel spits out, attempting to kick the air and wrench himself out of that infuriatingly firm clasp, only to have his calf gripped and tamed by Sebastian’s free hand. “All I’ve wanted to _do_ , all week since it has been so insufferably hot was to _read_ in my room, so I assure you--” 

They arrive, and Sebastian dumps Ciel onto his bed, where he lands with an artless bounce. “I _assure you_ , it is no _punishment_ ,” he pants, although he is not entirely convinced of this. Sebastian stands before him, between his splayed legs, tugging off one of his gloves which is stained green about the index finger and thumb from the horse’s bit. It makes Ciel vaguely sick to look at, though the twist in his gut is multi-faceted, revulsion and anticipation and hunger and fear. He swallows, noticing that Sebastian’s eyes are brilliantly red in this moment. 

His demon looks down upon him, pupils cat-thin and lower lip dimpled where his lengthened incisors are pricking it. “I require no assurance, young master,” he says, in a voice so very low and dangerous. Then, with his newly bare hand, he reaches for Ciel, fingers extending like a trap, like the jaw of a wolf closing in on his prey. 

Though he is faced with the truth of what Sebastian is every day in some way or another, Ciel is never prepared for his strength, his rage, his beauty. He cries out sharply as Sebastian grabs him, one hand in his hair and the other clamped neatly upon his hip, pushing him down and flipping him over easily. Ciel is suddenly on his stomach, mouth open on the dry, rough cotton of his bedspread as Sebastian pushes him down into it, choking him, mauling him. He closes his eyes and braces himself for whatever is to come. Because no matter how it hurts or what rapture it brings, it is coming. It always does. He could order it away, but his greatest shame in all of this is that he does not truly _want_ to be free of the way Sebastian binds him . He _needs_ Sebastian like this, and he is powerless against that need. 

Roughly, Sebastian tugs his jodhpurs down over his ass, his upper thighs burning as the thick waistband scraps across delicate skin. Because he is sweat-damp and sore, the air stings as it touches him, and Ciel is momentarily so overcome with the perverse bliss of overstimulation that he does not stop to think about the fact that he is sweat-damp and sore. He just grinds into the bed, legs parted as best they can with his jodhpurs still tight around his knees, lips scraped and silenced. Then, he feels Sebastian’s mouth. The sharp, hot, slick of it adhere to that secret crease, right where a his pale thigh meets the curve of his ass. This pushes Sebastian’s nose into the dark, humid, infernal space between Ciel’s legs, where sweat collects and ferments while he is riding. Sebastian inhales deeply, and Ciel panics. 

“ _Sebastian_!” He yells, though it comes out a garbled mess of syllables, his mouth still mostly full of bedspread, Sebastian’s hand keeping him firmly pressed there. He thrashes and kicks wildly, brain a chaos of static centered largely around the horrifying realization that he is _absolutely filthy_ , everywhere. Flawed, maddeningly human. Pubescent and unclean. He manages to buck wildly enough Sebastian’s mouth is no longer affixed to such a humiliating place, instead skirting up into the dimpled concave of of his back, licking and snapping all the while. 

Finally Ciel tucks his chin and twists out from underneath the pressure of Sebastian’s palm, sucking in desperate mouthfuls of air, drooling onto his own cheek, losing his eyepatch in the process. “What are you _doing_ you filthy, depraved animal,” he chokes out, newly exposed eye flashing, back still arching away uselessly from Sebastian’s teeth. “At least _bathe_ me first before you put your sick mouth all over me,” he says. 

He feels Sebastian’s wicked lips smile against his own sticky skin. He cringes at the mere knowledge that he is so very sticky, salty and gritty and impure. “I want you like this,” Sebastian says simply, voice thick and heavy from his throat. 

Ciel can _hear_ how much he wants him, what the smell of his own dirty, August-wrecked body is doing to Sebastian. His stomach flips over, cheeks and ears impossibly hot with shame. “ _Why_ would you want to do that to me when I’m so _dirty_?” 

Sebastian laughs, visibly amused by Ciel’s fixation on propriety, an absurd thing coming from a child spread out and half-nude beneath a demon in the first place. “I am your servant. I must do everything for you, to you. Every single thing.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ciel hisses, scrunching his eyes shut as Sebastian’s tongue dips lower, tracing his spine, only inches above his tailbone. It _is_ disgusting, but it is also incredibly exciting. His heart thunders, and he is consumed with equal amounts dread and longing. 

“Perhaps to a human,” Sebastian admits, dragging black nails down Ciel’s ribs, making him writhe and quiver in spite of himself. “But to a demon who hungers for your soul...every single one of your bodies natural perfumes-”

“Ugh, _stop_ ,” Ciel cries out, half-retching at the word _perfume_ , imagining the musky, pubescent reek of himself, mortifying in its probable intensity. He buries his face in the blanket, hands crunched into weak fists on either side of his skull, hating how he does not have control over his own human sickness, over his revolting corporeality. Sebastian kisses lower, and Ciel stops being able think of ways to articulate his disgust, his shame. He just shakes, face too hot to bear as Sebastian uses his thumb to hold the crack of his ass open, and licks up into him. 

It feels good. It always does. Slippery and wet and hot, Sebastian’s tongue pushing into tight pucker of his hole, then softening to lap up the length of him, from his sac to his tailbone, swirling and lashing. Ciel’s body locks up, wanting badly to press up into the familiar heat of Sebastian’s mouth, to melt and submit and relent. But his mind stops him, repeating on a loop that he is _filthy_ , that this is _disgusting_ , that he _cannot believe_ Sebastian would do such a thing to him when he is so throughly unbathed, so horrifyingly dirty. Still, he is hard, hard and _dripping_ as he grinds himself into the bedspread, graceless circular bucks of his hips. 

Sebastian pulls away to breathe, panting heavily against Ciel’s skin, nails digging into the curve of his ass. He rubs his forehead into Ciel’s thigh and murmurs “young master,” thumbing over Ciel’s hole, which is wet and twitching. “You’re delicious.” 

Ciel says nothing, just grimaces in mortification, overwhelmed by the heat of his own blush, sickened by the rolling waves of inextricable nausea and arousal twined in his stomach. Then Sebastian is licking him again, fucking up inside of him with his tongue and he does not _want_ to, not consciously anyway, but Ciel opens for him. So easily, like he was built for this. Sebastian spits directly onto his hole then pushes his index and middle finger into him, humming in poorly concealed want as Ciel whines, cries out, but takes him all the same. 

The truth of the matter is that Ciel does not realize how perpetually empty he feels until Sebastian begins filling him. He does not regularly think of himself as a shell, a husk carried about by the wind as he goes about his duties and his lessons, consisting of nothing but waiting vacancy. But then. Sebastian will spread him out on his stomach or on his back, their bodies slatting together like cutlery in a drawer, and invade him somehow. With his tongue, his fingers, his cock, and Ciel will realize that he is nothing without Sebastian inside of him, that he needs, _needs_ to be filled until he splits apart. And it’s never enough. He does not want to beg, he _hates_ begging, but it’s _never enough_ so he’s inevitably forced to beg, saying more and more and Sebastian, _Sebastian_ until is is no longer never enough, but too much. Ciel cannot stop until its too much. 

And here he lies, with Sebastian’s tongue licking around the rim of muscle stretched to accommodate two fingers, thinking, _never enough_. Arching his back, trying to swallow another knuckle with his own body, frustrated not because he is vile and rank with sweat and Sebastian is humiliating him, but because he wants more of Sebastian inside of him and it is not happening fast enough. He needs hell to fill him until he is overflowing, he needs that perfection, that darkness, all of it. He groans, reaching behind him to grab Sebastian’s wrist, fucking himself with his butler’s hand. “More,” He breathes, legs splayed lewdly across the edge of the bed. “Please.” 

Sebastian crooks his fingers inside of him, stroking his insides, playing him like the violin. “I thought the young master was disgusted?” he asks lightly, bending over Ciel’s ass so that he can spit a thick mouthful into his crack, smoothing his ring finger into the mess before pushing it in alongside the others. Ciel cries out, freezing for a moment, relishing the sick, dirty burn of being stretched and torn. 

“I did,” he hisses, mindlessly. “I mean, I do. But I also...” He realizes what he’s saying, rubbing his face into the bedspread, body wracking with a dry, disgraced sob. “More, Sebastian, _please_ ,” he pleads, giving up. This always happens. His need outweighs his dignity, and he ends up here. 

Sebastian drops onto Ciel’s back, crushing the air from him deliberately, mouth opening on his neck to suck a spot of color to the surface. His breath huffs out of him unevenly as he smells Ciel, drawing great, pained inhalations into his lungs as he rubs his face all over him, against his hair, into the stained underarm of his shirt, behind his ear. There are times when Sebastian maintains flawless composure throughout whatever he is doing to Ciel, mocking and amused for the duration. This is not one of those times, and the rawness in Sebastian’s voice and movement terrifies Ciel, drives him mad with arousal. 

“My lord,” Sebastian murmurs. Ciel can hear him unbuttoning his pants and struggling out of them, a sound he loathes loving so. Sebastian bites into Ciel’s pulse, pulls his chin from where is it tucked into the covers, exposing his swollen lips. Then with an agonizing burn he slides dirty wet fingers from Ciel’s body, leaving him empty, empty and aching and wanting. Ciel grits his teeth, hating how badly he craves Sebastian back inside him, hating how he follows Sebastian’s hand with his body, chasing his fingers. Sometimes Sebastian laughs at him when he acts transparently desperate, but this time he only hisses, low and wordless, like it moves him to see Ciel so beside himself. 

He holds Ciel apart and rubs his cock into the slick crack of his ass, teasing him there for a moment, nudging the crown against his hole where he’s open and twitching. It’s agonizing, and Ciel moans before it even happens, spreading his legs and pushing himself into the cradle of Sebastian’s hips, beyond caring about the picture he makes. 

Then, as Sebastian pushes his length hilt-deep into Ciel, he kisses him with a filthy mouth. Their tongues swirl messily together, and Ciel is shocked to taste himself on Sebastian, bitter and salty and dark. He does not dwell on it, he _cannot_ , not with Sebastian fucking him like this. It feels like fire pouring into his body, a purifying fire, an effigy. He sucks his flavor off of Sebastian’s lips mindlessly, eyes rolled back beneath flickering lids as Sebastian rides him, the force of his thrusts making Ciel’s stomach burn against the bedspread, his own cock twitch and pulse between his thighs. 

With his eyes shut against the cascade of static, Ciel lets Sebastian hollow him out. It hurts, the muscles in his hips and lower back already sore from his riding lesson, throbbing with each artful snap of Sebastian’s spine. He feels bruised on the outside, but inside he is one solitary raw nerve, sweat-chafed and stinging as Sebastian thrusts into him, so deep, deeper than Ciel ever imagined someone could get inside another’s body. But still, he wants more. _Never enough,_ , he thinks, struggling to get a leg bent beneath him so he has some leverage to push back up against Sebastian. _Never_. 

Sebastian is holding on to Ciel’s shirt with his teeth, perspiration from his own brow dripping down onto the back of Ciel’s neck in the heat. He’s making inhuman sounds from deep in his throat, fevered growls and hisses, a strange and insect clicking that digs claws beneath Ciel’s tender skin, draws a shiver up to the surface of him even as he pours sweat. It is all _so unbelievably good_ , to hear the sounds he renders from Sebastian, to be filled like this. Filled and used and broken, ripped in two. Ciel can’t breathe, he can’t think, so he just lets himself be slammed into, lets his mouth go slack and his bedspread grow damp with drool. 

He starts to feel Sebastian change. Become heavier upon his back, flickering like a searing black flame as he tenses and shudders, Ciel’s name stark and forbidden on his lips. Ciel’s stomach turns. Hearing Sebastian say his first name feels as filthy as getting licked after a riding lesson. Every time it happens a fiery sickness flares up in his gut, it is so crass, so base, so _mortifying_. “Sebastian,” he hisses back, swallowing a mouthful of faintly metallic spic. “Say it. Say it again.” 

Sebastian does, over and over again, like he is praying at an altar. Then, as if the horror of it is too profound even for him, he makes a fist in Ciel’s hair, fierce and brutal, and comes inside of him with a mournful groan.

Ciel keens beneath him, pulsing around the molten heat growing in his center, holding his breath and bracing his body so that he can feel every single second and relish every tiny detail of being filled. Sebastian continues to pump his hips lazily, their flesh making obscene sounds as they slide together, the sick-wet sucks of Ciel’s tightness, clenching and forcing come from his body in hot drips. 

He collapses under Sebastian’s weight, shuddering, struggling to breathe for a moment until Sebastian rolls off of him, sliding from his insides in a slick of pearl white. It burns like fire on his thighs and Ciel whimpers, suddenly empty again, his own fingers trembling down to the slippery junction of his legs. He winces as he feels himself, swollen and stretched and sticky. Though his face is still hot with embarrassment, most of him cannot care. It’s a far away embarrassment, and he can still hear his name in Sebastian’s voice echoing in his head, reverent and vulgar. 

Sebastian encircles his wrist with wet fingers and pulls his hands away, obviously not done with his body. Ciel is overstimulated; he does not have the strength or dignity to protest as Sebastian rolls him onto his back and folds him in half, pushing his weak and tremulous thighs to his stomach so he can examine his hole, where he’s pink and filthy and used. “What a mess, my young master,” he murmurs, rubbing his fingers over the delicate ridges of muscle, inflamed and painted in white.   
Ciel grimaces, suddenly remembering to be horrified. He covers his eyes with his hands like that will somehow stop Sebastian from seeing him like this, his most intimate places debauched and exposed. He doesn’t know why it is so much worse to be _looked_ at there than it is to be penetrated, stretched, pulled apart, but it _is_. He loves that there is no part of him that Sebastian has not invaded, has not tasted, but he _hates_ that he loves it so. 

His stomach contracts as Sebastian pushes his index finger back into him. There’s no resistance but it still stings, and he yelps in response, a small and involuntary sound. Sebastian feels up inside him for a moment, crooking his fingers, pushing them as deep as he can, humming in appreciation as Ciel opens so easily for him. Then he replaces his finger with his tongue, breath hot and labored as he bends to lick him clean. 

Ciel clenches his teeth, his mind buzzing with sensation. He _knows_ this is a terrible thing, he _knows_ he should be kicking Sebastian away, or at least _thinking_ about how vile this is and hating himself for it, but he cannot even remember why he knows that, just that he does. It feels terribly good, a filthy burn as Sebastian tongues around his hole, sucking his own come from Ciel’s tender, worked-over body. 

Cringing, Ceil lets it happen, shivering as Sebastian moans against his skin. _Too much_ , he thinks blindly, writhing in messy abandon. He is still terribly hard, aching and twitching against his own pale stomach, and he’s about to reach between his thighs to touch himself again when Sebastian pulls away with a wet smacking sound. 

He looms over Ciel, mouth shining, incisors lengthened to sinister points, eyes consumed in flame. “More?” he asks, voice thick with darkness, knuckles brushing gently over Ciel’s ribs with a tenderness that makes his skin crawl. 

Ciel gazes up at him, lost, powerless. These moments force him to admit that this is all he knows, and that there is shame in it but his hunger will always, always outweigh that shame. There is nothing to be done about any of it. “Yes, more,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes. 

“My good boy,” Sebastian sighs before hoisting him up and parting his legs, sucking deeply from his crack before reemerging to spit a thick mouthful of his own come onto Ciel’s cock. They both look down at his body, the rosy-pink of him dripping in milky white, Sebastian’s long, black tipped fingers teasing against delicate skin. 

Sebastian plays with him for a good while, as if he were a toy. Sliding his thumb over the weeping slit of his cock, pulling his foreskin up with his lips and licking into the tiny pocket of space it creates. Ciel can hardly stand it, maddened by the feather-light touches, bucking desperately up into Sebastian’s mouth to seek pressure, pain, anything. Sebastian keeps holding him down, eyes illuminated in a terrible red as he kisses his thighs, licks hollows of his hips. “Please,” Ciel rasps, making a fist in Sebastian’s silky hair and trying to drag him down to where he wants him. “ _Sebastian_.” It feels like a fight, fruitless and humiliating. He thrashes in irritation, uselessly small beneath the weight and strength of hell. 

Finally, Sebastian gives him what he wants. He takes the whole of him into his mouth, until his nose and lips are nestled up against soft, musky skin. Then everything becomes infernally hot again, hot like August, tight with relentless suction, but still, _still_ it’s not enough. Ciel wiggles down the bed, arching over the blankets, trying everything but it’s impossible. He’s still empty, and its not enough. “Fuck me,” he forces out between his teeth, hating the harsh, desperate scrape of them. “With your fingers,” he demands. 

Sebastian chuckles, the vibration sending Ciel’s hips twisting up off the mattress in overwhelm. He releases him for just a moment to press a wet, lingering kiss to the inside of Ciel’s thigh. “So greedy,” he says, voice husky and dangerous. 

Ciel rolls his eyes, pulling his fistful hair until he hears a sharp intake of breath and the slickness of Sebastian’s tongue returns. “Shut up,” he says, panting. “Just do it.” 

Obliging, Sebastian pushes into him mercilessly, three fingers pumping in and out with an excruciating burn. Ciel feels so terribly stretched, so terribly used, and both of his hands fly to his mouth in vain attempts to muffle the ragged, needy sob Sebastian rips from his lips. 

He could come from just _that_ , he has before. Sebastian knows how to touch him, knows every inch of his insides like created the body they belong to, knows how to play symphonies with Ciel’s screams, knows how to degrade him so perfectly Ciel forgets it is degradation in the first place. He has come on his hands and knees with nothing but Sebastian’s cock inside him, spilling onto his own stomach without a single touch. So all of it combined, Sebastian everywhere, rubbing his free hand over his thighs and stomach, gripping his flesh like he is hungry for it, sucking on him, fucking him without tenderness or rhythm, is overwhelming. 

It doesn’t take long. Sebastian moans around his cock as he loses himself in a single salt-sticky pulse of come. Ciel’s vision blacks out, everything in the world whittled down to this rage of white-hotness, this pain and this bliss. Then he collapses back onto the bed, anchored by the terrible ache inside him. 

He slowly comes to, sore and throbbing around Sebastian’s fingers, a crumpled sweaty mess everywhere else. He can smell himself, sharp pubescent sweat, the earthy stench of horses, come and leather and dirty hair and Sebastian’s spit. Still convulsing, he forces Sebastian’s fingers out of himself, yelping at the rough drag of his knuckles, his nails. “Ouch,” he mumbles, rolling onto his side, hiding his face in the well-rumpled bedspread. His room materializes, mundane and too warm, and only then does he properly remember that he is supposed to be angry with his butler. 

As his pleasure fades in scintillating waves, his disgust builds, shame and fury spreading like an infection in his chest. “I cannot believe you did that,” he says to himself but also to Sebastian, voice muffled against the mattress. “I smell _dreadful_.” 

“I quite disagree, young master,” Sebastian sighs, rubbing his fingers against Ciel’s ass, where he is unbearably sloppy and wet, to collect the remaining sweat and saliva and come. 

Ciel then hears the unmistakable sound of Sebastian sucking those fingers clean, the fingers that were recently inside his deepest recesses. He makes a face that no one sees, gagging in the back of his throat. “Do _not_ think that you’ll be kissing me after that,” he grumbles, knowing full well that Sebastian will try, and likely succeed, in doing such a vile thing. 

Because Sebastian does not lie, he does not answer. Ciel’s skin cools, and he begins to notice the heat has ebbed somewhat as twilight approaches. The sun is setting outside, casting his bedroom in rich amber hues which leak in around the curtains. He rolls over upon the bed, his shirt still sticking to him in spite of August’s brief reprieve, his back adhering to Sebastian, who has stretched out beside him. “Are you feeling refreshed now that you are inside, away from the sun?” Sebastian asks lightly, smoothing damp hair from his brow. 

He smacks his hand away, scowling at Sebastian for acting as if he didn’t just fuck gallons of sweat out of him. “The heat may be insufferable, but at least it goes away at night. You’re always insufferable,” Ciel snaps, trying to tug the hem of his shirt down to cover his thighs and backside, though it is entirely too short to cover much at all. Then he stops moving, because it’s a somewhat uncomfortable thing to do in this moment. 

Sebastian says nothing. Instead he takes advantage of Ciel’s brief distraction by grabbing his chin and kissing him fiercely, possessing his mouth with such grace and hunger Ciel does not even try to stop him. He wrinkles his forehead, attempting to at least to feel repulsed by the bitter, salty, organic taste of himself on Sebastian’s tongue, but their two flavors are too connected in his own mind for him to feel anything purely disgusted. It tastes like him, yes, but it also tastes like Sebastian, Sebastian’s come and Sebastian’s spit and those are not things he can resist. He sucks on Sebastian’s lower lip, feeling useless. It is a confusing mess, as all things are with Sebastian. He gives up, as he always does. 

They break apart, and Sebastian is at least merciful enough to not mention Ciel’s broken promise. He just leans over him, thumbing gently beneath the wide, stinging eye marked in their contract seal. 

Ciel studies Sebastian, noticing that his hair is rucked up into a spectacular mess at the base of his skull and his cheeks and throat are flushed, sweat beaded along the tendons which frame the strange flicker of his pulse. There’s a faint tracery of blue veins at his temple, and a fine, translucent dusting of hair everywhere else. This close, he looks deceitfully human. Ciel frowns. “How come outside in the riding area, you weren’t sweating at _all_ even though the sun was directly above us? You sweat all over me later.” 

Sebastian closes his eyes, nods into Ciel until their foreheads touch. “I am in complete control of my appearance, as it is merely a glamour. I only allow human flaws to appear when I desire them.” 

“And _why_ would you ever desire _sweat_? It’s a loathsome thing,” Ciel mumbles against Sebastian’s lips, thinking of his own unendurable _stickiness_ , all the places he is adhered to himself with a patina of foul mortality. The air is damp and close around them, humid with their breath and there, that is another thing. Sebastian’s breath smells like Ciel, like every inch of his body he indulged upon, like he swallowed his come. He is painted in Ciel in this moment, in his baseness and his squalor. 

Sebastian shrugs. “Sweat is a human truth. I find your humanity fascinating. I hunger for it, for you. And when I choose to drown in your humanity, young master, it is a delicious feeling to revel in my own myth of it.” 

Ciel blinks, processing it all. “Such poetry, when all you really mean is that you want to swallow my soul,” he says. 

“Perhaps,” Sebastian in a measured voice, so measured Ciel can see through it to the lie beneath. The truth is that Sebastian is as wrecked as he, that beneath his feigned humanity, fucking Ciel in a mess of their combined sweat is agony for him, too, not enough, never enough. It must be a consolation prize of sorts, to only fuck the thing you wish to devour. Ciel might pity him, if he were capable of such a thing. 

He sighs deeply, finding satisfaction in his knowledge that Sebastian suffers from a variation of the same perpetual, unquenchable thirst as he does. “I think the actual truth is that you enjoy making me suffer,” he offers, the corner of his mouth quirking into an almost-smile. 

“Again, perhaps,” Sebastian says before dipping down and biting him swiftly upon the neck. It hurts, especially since Ciel’s skin is still overly sensitive, and he yelps before twisting away, glowering in the fading orange light of the sunset. 

Sebastian smiles, too many teeth showing. It is refreshingly inhuman, and Ciel relaxes as he witnesses the demon showing through the shape of a man, the flicker of blackness beneath his butler’s livery. “See,” he says, rubbing his palm across the newly-dimpled bite mark upon his neck. “You _adore_ it.”

“True,” Sebastian murmurs, voice like a faraway rumble of thunder, a retreating storm. “However, regardless of whether or not I enjoy provoking you, I certainly enjoy serving you.” 

“They almost feel like the same thing,” Ciel admits, squirming in discomfort. The dual aches of riding and being ridden are beginning to sink into his bones, stiffening his muscles, and he desperately wants to bathe the sheen of filth from his body. 

Sebastian notices and rises from the bed elegantly, buttoning the few buttons on his waistcoat which were rucked open, fastening his trousers with deft fingers. “Shall I draw a bath now for the young master? I will also open the curtains, as to air out this room. It smells quite strongly of young boy.” 

Ciel colors fiercely, licking his lips. “Fine. Do what you need to,” he mumbles, hiding his face with his forearm. Then, within the secret crease of his elbow, he allows himself to sigh deeply. This is what he is, what has become of him, what he will be forevermore. He listens to the echo of Sebastian’s footsteps down the hall, both ashamed by and resigned to the fact that they are in time with the sick, sad thud of his own heartbeat. His breath shudders out of him, something long held and eternal. There is nothing to be done about any of it.


End file.
